by Max Henry
I leave my keys and phone on the bed and head across to the drawers to get myself a clean T-shirt. An afternoon on the bike with the sun beating on my back left me hot and sweaty. Although nowhere near as hot under the collar as I got seeing Belle behind me in the queue. What are the fucking chances? I didn’t recognise the car, but if she’s fresh in the country she won’t have her own ride yet.
What was she doing there? And why the hell didn’t she get out of the car after she pulled over? With a groan, I run my hand through my hair and then strip my shirt off. The fabric hits the wall with a dull thud before sliding to the floor. I step into the attached bathroom and run the tap, wondering if I scared her by coming up behind the car like that. I had to know if it really was her, and I had to know what she’d do when she could see without a doubt it was me. Cold water hits my face, but nothing wakes me from this funk. Fuck, I lost myself the day she left. Fucking slipped off the straight and narrow road John helped me get on and freefell into oblivion.
I dry my face off, scrubbing the fibres of the towel hard against my face out of sheer frustration. Maybe I did do the right thing buying that ticket? After all, if she’d stuck with me, then where would she be now? What would she have done when I went back inside? The thought that I might have given her no option but to crawl back to John with her tail between her legs sends shivers down my spine. Not to mention the fire it ignites when I think how smug Cerise would have been.
Fuck. The bitch is probably smug now. I wouldn’t know; I haven’t seen her since it all turned south at the barbecue.
My phone lights up from the bed, drawing my focus as I step back into the bedroom. A Facebook notification shows on the screen before it slides back into black. I track across the room, pulled to the goddamn devil in a hard case, and check to see if Belle has sent me a request now.
Nope. Nothing.
I flick through to the new message instead and relax a little at the news. I met with the Jerry guy Ed told me about; turned out his last name is Connell—his father started the business. Ed’s story about employee training was legit, and with the tickets I already hold, Jerry seemed keen to get me on board with the view to moving me through the company.
For once in my goddamn life, my criminal history didn’t seem to matter. The guy judged me purely on my performance at work, and now he’s messaged asking for references and contacts.
Now I have the awkward job of providing them and in turn alerting my current boss to the fact I’m looking to go elsewhere.
Fun times.
I opt to leave my shirt off and carry the phone through to the living room to get a brew from the fridge. With the top cracked, I settle in the armchair and open Facebook to navigate through to Belle’s profile. I used to do this daily at the start, scroll her feed looking for anything new, and then I became better at managing my obsession. I blocked her.
I resisted since then, never once stalking her profile to torture myself with images of what I could never have. Even convinced myself that I was doing great, beating those goddamn demons down and taking control of my life.
What a joke that was. I simply denied the truth and buried my head in the sand. My need to know, my desire to be a part of Belle’s life, is as strong as it’s ever been. I’d just tuned myself out to the noise of the regrets is all.
Her profile is locked down with only things mutual friends have tagged her in visible. I tap on the About section, and even that is blank thanks to her privacy settings. My shoulders lift with the deep breath I take as I set the phone down. Truth be told, I don’t know if I can wait for her to make the first move.
She sat there in that fucking car, wide-eyed as though she’d seen a ghost. I studied her in the bike’s mirror, every little thing about her that’s different. Her hair is darker, blacker than the dark brown I remember, and she seems to have leaned out judging by the visible collarbones. Belle also has ink—lots of it—but I guess that goes with the territory when you’re an artist.
Fuck—of course, you dumb shit.
If she’s worth her salt as an artist, she’ll have an Instagram page for her work. I furiously tap through on my phone and search her out, my heart resounding in my ears as I find her in the results. The excitement quickly fades, though, when I see that her entire page is just her work, nothing with her in it. In a lastditch effort, I tap the icon on the far right for posts she’s been tagged in.
My faith in the world is restored.
There, in all her beauty, is Belle. The first few images are other people showing off their work, but third line down, taken against the backdrop of what I guess is the shop she worked in, is Belle beside a shorter girl with pastel pink hair. I stare at the image for a ridiculous amount of time, my earlier mood returning tenfold.
I’ve never hidden the fact I miss her, never lied about the fact I regret setting her free. I’ve also never shared those feelings with anyone other than Jodie, because who else do I know that wanted to hear about it? My best friend became a distant acquaintance, my small circle shrinking to a near invisible dot: me.
I buried my truth deep down where good things go to die, and I became this guy. Who the fuck is he, even? I came out of prison determined not to give in to what’s easy and fall back into old habits. I came out determined to be a better man. But what is a better man? Some guy who pretends his loneliness is a part of his life that he actually likes? Some guy who hides the heart of who he is behind a bullshit icy exterior that solely exists to push away any potential harm building relationships might do?
After all, if I don’t care for anyone, I don’t care if they’re no longer there, do I?
You can’t miss what you never had.
I need to move on, to stop wasting my life in limbo, just as Jodie said. And to a point, I think she was right when she said contact with Belle might be the only thing that will do it. I need to hear from her lips, from Belle’s own mouth, that she no longer wants a thing to do with me. I need her to cut the cord.
I set her free, sure, but who the fuck am I kidding when I say it was without the expectation she’d come back to me? John might have convinced me that I did the right thing given how naïve Belle still was at eighteen, but who was naïve when it came to thinking I could ever let go? Did I really think a woman as gorgeous as her would spend years overseas without the offer of more, of something better?
She said once that I projected my fears onto her, telling her that I was worried she’d walk away when she realised how impossible what we had was. Did I do that? Did I push her into another guy’s arms?
Fuck. I slam my head back on the seat, eyes closed. My mind is a tangled mess when it comes to that woman. I’ve carried the burden long enough; time to let my dove know just what she did to me when she pushed up on her toes and pressed those lips to mine.
I open the messenger app and hover my thumb over the screen before switching to the notes app. I’m shit with words when it comes to getting my thoughts down on paper—or device, as it is. I’m better hashing this out before I accidentally send her a jumbled mess.
The last half of my beer slides down with ease as I prime myself for the most important message of my life. She might be happy with some other guy, but I won’t be happy until she knows exactly what she gave up on.
Time to put the issue of Belle to bed, once and for all.
SEVEN
Belle
My phone lights up to tell me I have an incoming FaceTime call from Damien. Ugh. I catch Dad’s eye as he glances over from where he’s seated in his armchair.
“Everything okay?”
“Yeah. It’s Damien.”
He nods, satisfied as I swipe the screen to connect. “Hey.” I pick the device up and abandon my post at the dining table to take what’s bound to be one hell of a shitfight somewhere more private.
“You calmed down now?” He scrubs a hand over his face, clearly tired considering it has to be some godawful hour of the morning over there.
“Have you?”
I grin back, touched by the sentiment, but deep down I wonder if that’s the problem with us. He doesn’t care enough to challenge me. He’s always been the “easy” boyfriend, the guy who says “yes, dear,” “of course, dear,” at all the appropriate times.
When he was around…
“Can’t sleep?” I close the back door behind me and then settle on the concrete steps.
“Not really.” He smiles softly at the screen, his finger huge as he traces my image. “You know, the day you sat on the plane next to me one thing struck me about you.”
“What’s that?” I settle my back against the side of the house.
“You thought you had no independence, but there you were, this gorgeous creature about to set out and make her mark in the world, and of all places you sat next to me.”
“I think fate knew I needed a companion.”
He frowns. “Is that all we are though? Companions?”
The rising mood plummets with a hiss as I register the concern on his face. “Don’t you feel like there’s something missing?” We dance around the subject all the time: I’m done with it.
Damien rolls on the bed, taking the phone with him so it’s held over his head. “Like what, though? We get along great, we laugh, we like the same shit, and I support what you want to do… even if I throw a tantrum sometimes about it.” He smiles. “But what else should there be, Belle?”
He never had a serious relationship before me. It was one of the first things Damien warned me about as we spilled our stories on the long-haul flight: he was a womaniser, happy to try but never buy.
I thought that meant he’d be a quick fling to prove I could move past Zeus, but I don’t think either of us expected it to become this mutual partnership.
“A spark,” I say in reply to his question. “Don’t you wish that when you saw me there’d be that need, that desire?”
“There is.”
“Outside of sexual,” I deadpan.
He frowns, clearly lost on where I’m going with this.
“Okay, look at it this way. We have sex, right? But what’s one thing we never do?”
“I don’t know what you’re getting at.”
“How many times have we simply held each other? How many times have we sat in each other’s arms and watched the sunset at any one of the awesome places we visited? How many times did you tuck me against you while we watched a movie?”
“Belle.” He closes his eyes and presses the thumb and forefinger of his free hand into his eyes. “When are you going to stop believing in that Hollywood bullshit?”
“It’s not fake,” I snap. “It exists. You’ve just never found it.”
“And you have?” He lifts both brows, sceptical.
I say nothing, aware that the only way I could explain the way I feel involves a man other than him.
“Look,” he says with a sigh. “I know it’s hard at the moment, but it won’t be for much longer.”
“How is the trip?”
“Good. The group got together today, and we did all that team bonding shit they have you do before the real fun starts.”
My body relaxes a little, the conversation easy when we’re not talking about us as a couple. “Good mix of people?”
“I think so.” He frowns, and I just know there’s more. “I had a long talk with the guy who’s going to be our guide.”
“And?” The brief ease vanishes as my shoulders set firm, my chest tight.
“He said there’s this trek he’s doing straight after ours. He showed me some pics he took the last time he was there and the place is amazing.”
“And you want to do it.” My comment is flat, more of an observation than a question.
“It’s only another couple of weeks, Belle.”
“Which adds up to a month.” I sigh, closing my eyes briefly. “First it was the two of us coming back together to settle down, and then it’s you skipping north so you can keep travelling. And now it’s a whole fucking month before you plan to come join me.”
His brow pinches in a frown. “Look, I felt bad for shitting on your dreams this afternoon. I thought to myself, hey, she’s been pretty damn patient with me and I got grumpy because she’s planning our future without my input. But you know what? Fuck that. Maybe I was right to get pissed off, because everything’s all about you, Belle. Am I not allowed to do what makes me happy?”
“Not when what makes you happy doesn’t involve me,” I yell, my fingers white on the sides of my phone. “Do I matter at all?”
“Are you hearing yourself?”
“Yeah, I am. And I’m also failing to hear you plan your future with my input, so don’t you give me that bullshit when you’re just as guilty.”
He falls silent, his face a storm as he looks away from the screen. “I’m not letting you ruin this experience, Belle.”
“Oh, well lucky for you then, huh?” I bite out. “Because you’ve already ruined mine. See you in a month, Damien.” I slam my finger down on the screen to end the connection.
Don’t let them see how they hurt you. I swipe the first tears away with the pad of my thumb and draw a deep breath. How could I have thought we were happy these past years? How could I have been so blind to the problems that were obviously there?
I was too busy trying to be the good girlfriend, letting him travel without me, focusing on my apprenticeship while he toured around music festivals and made new friends.
God. Where they all just friends? Have I been that blind?
I set my phone down on the step, yet the little red circle over the messenger app catches my eye as the screen dims. I smack it with my finger to stop the phone going to sleep, and open the app.
There, at the top, is a message request from Zeus. Guilt surges through me as I crane my neck to check the kitchen window, as though Dad would be there to spy on me. Pull yourself together, Belle. I’m a grown-arse woman, and yet here I sit on the back step of my Dad’s house as though I’ve got a backpack full of candy stolen from the corner store.
I draw a deep breath, looking for that calm that comes with a lungful of oxygen, and tap the message. My pulse pounds in my ears like an unrelenting storm surge, crashing and booming as I read the first line four times before the words register in my addled mind.
I’ll always love you, Dove, and this is why:
Jesus. Can I do this? Fresh off the back of a fight with Damien, is this such a good idea? I set the phone down and step onto the lawn. The dewy grass is cool underfoot, the moisture seeping between my toes as I head out into the darkness toward the shadow of the huge tree at the back of Dad’s yard.
My fingers connect with the frayed threads of the rope swing, the fibres tickling my senses in the dark as I circle the weathered slab of wood that was once the seat. My heart quickens at the memory: a man who loved a little girl as his own before that love grew to something entirely different; a man who was always there for me in one aspect or another.
The answer is clear as I let go of the rope and head back to my phone. I can honour my father, respect his wishes, but nothing will change the true direction of my heart. I need to know what he has to say. I need to know how the message ends. I can’t deny Zeus’s existence while the gap he left is as clear as day.
Seated on the step once more, I wake the screen and keep reading:
I haven’t spoken to you in years, and still, your voice is as fresh in my mind as though it was only yesterday you told me you love me.
I still feel the way your palm fits in mine.
I watch for storms, and in some fucked up way I hope that watching those grey clouds roll by connects me with you—did you see the same clouds as I did?
I still feel the way your legs wrap around my waist, the weight of your body in my arms.
There’s a special piece that only you can ink on my skin, a piece that means more than all my other work combined
.
I still feel the heat of your lips as they trace a path over mine.
Most of all, you belong to another, you’ve found your happily ever after, and yet I can’t stop hoping you’ll come back to me.
I still love you, Belle. I said I always would, and to you, I can never lie.
My breaths come in staggered bursts as I note the heart and dove emoticon that he chose to sign off with. Fuck you, Zeus. He told me once that he struggled with his words, that the things in his head never transcribed to paper and that’s why he did so badly at school.
The man is a liar. Because if that’s only half of the sentiment he holds inside, then I don’t want to know the truth of his feelings, because the strength of those words would surely kill me.
How the hell do I respond to that? What do I say that would not only do his message justice, but also protect his heart? In all reality, I’m in no position to reply, not when the shit I’d type isn’t the whole truth for fear of doing the wrong thing by Damien. How can I love one man, yet be in love with another?
Do I even love Damien? We have physical attraction in spades, but what we lack, what we’ve always lacked, is that mental connection. I don’t crave his company like I did Zeus’s. I don’t treasure mid-afternoon conversations held while lying in each other’s embrace. I don’t long for the sound of his voice.
I told myself that nobody would ever compare to Zeus, and deep down I know that to still be true. Nobody could.
So, what the hell am I doing? What the hell have I done?
EIGHT
Zeus
The barking dogs alert my boss, Thomas, to my presence as they bash their muscled bodies against the wooden gate. I walk up the gravel driveway, hands in my pockets, and cast my eye over the old villa. The security light that snaps on with my movement instantly blinds me.
“Zeus, my man!”
I squint past the white glow to focus on the dark space beyond. Thomas stands on the veranda, the door held open with his solid frame.
“Shut up, would ya?” he hollers at the dogs as I redirect course. “Good mongrels, those two, but fucking noisy.” He laughs as I reach out to offer my greeting.
